55th Games Victor Presentation Ceremony

[Lulu]

OOC-I know it says 'tonight' in the post following, but the recap video won't be up till Monday or Tuesday. I'm going away this weekend, and there's still some tweaking to do. Sorry about that, guys.

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The president of Panem stood on the magnificent stage in the City Circle, addressing his people as he had done numerous times before. Another of his prized Hunger Games had come to a close. As usual, they had been an enormous success; enough blood, death, and tragedy to satisfy the viewers, and also to subdue the thoughts of rebellion that the high government official knew were brewing in the minds of some of Panem's citizens.

These Games had been questionable, though. For one thing, they'd been over with quickly. Sure, there was plenty of gore and drama throughout the seven days they'd lasted, an unprecedented amount, actually, but it was more interesting when they lasted longer. The attention of the nation was captured, so they didn't have time to think of...other things.

Another odd aspect of these Games had been the tribute relations. Certain groups seemed to get a lot closer than was normal for the Games; it seemed as if real bonds had been formed. It made no sense to President Snow. Really, though, all but one of them was going to die, anyway. So why do they make it seem so much like betrayal when one of them turns on another?

The victor this year was another unexpected one. There'd been a fair amount of strong Careers, ones that were very promising, so how did a tiny little thing from District Twelve come up with the crown? Aranica Petros, that was her name. A name that Panem wouldn't forget. A name that could cause President Snow and the Capitol some trouble in the near future.

He knew that Aranica was waiting just below him right now, ready for the platforms to lift her up and out into the light for the first time since she'd left the arena three days ago. The usual upholstered throne was placed in the center of the stage, ready to be sat in by the victor while she watched a recap of what had been her hell for the past two and a half weeks, including prep. It was perpetual torture for the tribute, but the president enjoyed it very much.

President Snow quieted the crowd and prepared to speak. "Ladies and gentleman, I'm pleased to welcome you to the victor presentation ceremony of the Fifty-fifth annual Hunger Games!" As usual, there was the deafening roar of approval that followed. "Tonight we will show a recap video of this year's Games, so be sure to stay tuned!" Like they have a choice," the president thought. The recap video was required viewing for all of Panem.

Snow went on to announce the prep team, stylist, escort, and mentor of the victor, and all were received with tremendous applause. But then, the moment they were all waiting for...Snow plastered a smile across his face before speaking once more. "And now, may I present the victor of the 55th Hunger Games...Aranica Petros!"

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OOC-RPing is permitted in this thread by Capitol characters. This is the place to have your Capitol character react to viewing the recap video, if you planned on doing that. All characters from other districts can create their own threads in the districts, if they wish.

[/center][/size]

[cinder]

The people of the Capitol laugh, cry, and faint when the Hunger Games come to an end.This year the majority of the people had cried. Brittany had reveled in the sound of so many voices outside of her window. Keening, sobbing wails that had no right to come from the mouth of anyone but a banshee. They sounded especially humorous mixed with the shrill, piercing cries of outrage. Britt flung open her windows and muted the television. SHe sat down on her couch and flipped aimlessly through one of her favorite magazines while listening to what she wished was the soundtrack of her life. Other people in immense, unexplainable pain.

There was the nagging voice that kept pushing its way to the front of her brain, bringing with it a twinge of sadness that came with the inconvenient task of trying to find another girl as creepy and murderous as Dru Charlesburg to represent her gang. There was no other girl Britt could name who had such a love of pain and suffering, certainly there had never been a girl like her. So beautiful it made the surged-out citizens of her city go green with envy. So capable and crazy Ms Dreamer wouldn't be surprised if President Snow wished she was his daughter. There was something unexplainably magical about her former fellow-terorist.

It was a shame, really it was, but Brittany was elated with this new winner. Yet again there had been a meek underdog of District Twelve to win the Games. Brittany could not imagine how much better the quality of life in that rink'a'dink District had gotten. The rebels would be growing stronger as more food was passed onto them by their District allies. Slowly the Uprisers would come out into the open, smug with the apparently 'secret' knowledge that the current governments reign was coming to an end. When this happened, it would be good hunting for Anti-Uprisers like herself. Her group had stopped communicating a year ago.

So strange how time flowed. A year seemed like a day in the eyes of Brittany Dreamer, but to Aranica Petros and her beloved, their last few moments together must have seemed like an eternity of pain, anguish and love. Britt had been thinking about all of this when Ara first won the Games, and she thought of it again as snaky President Snow addressed the nation. She admired that man greatly for keeping control over the nation after two shocking Victors in a row, wondered what he thought of this Ara girl.

Aranica Petros was indeed a shocking victor. She was not like Arbor, the cute boy from last year, no, she did not appear to be different or strange at first. Her eyes followed you when you spoke, she was intelligent and besides being a little too cute for the gangly, growing age of twelve, seemed physically fine. What lay beneath her dark eyes was intoxicating to a sociopath like Brie Dreamer. She was delusional at best, a psychopath at worst. They really were breeding odd ones back in District Twelve, weren't they? She spoke to rocks and had invented a new meaning for the word cloud that every Capitolite seemed obsessed with. Twice this week, Brittany had spat the cruel word at petty friends. "You're such a cloud assassin, you know that right?" she had growled with conviction, only to laugh at how stupid she sounded a few seconds later.

Yes, Aranica Petros certainly was a winner worth paying attention to. Down to her suicidal tendencies, expressed in the contemplative expression on her small face when her former alliance had suggested eating Ara in order to sustain themselves. Oh! There was that whole trying-to-drown-herself fit at the end of the Games too. Brittany hadn't been paying attention by then, so drunk off of the pain of her fellow citymen.

Being rich and seductive, Brittany had managed to wrangle herself a ticket to the Victors viewing of the Hunger Games. Wasn't too hard when four of the people you were dating also happened to be politically connected, thank you very much. Brittany turned her head to catch the eye of one of these people. She winked, letting her long lashes caress the dark skin beneath her gold-hued eyes. The object of her affections licked her lips and smiled back at Brittany in an entirely inappropriate way that earned her a few looks from highly esteemed family members sitting around her. As if Britt cared. She chortled as she turned her head back to catch the end of P-Snows long, dulldulldull speech. He had finally gotten to the best part of all, the part Brittany had been waiting with baited breath for.

Aranica Petros, Brittanys new favorite after the epic, tragic death of Dru Charlesburg was being presented. She made a mental note to thank Lili Carenessa for the incredible seat later that night, while watching the platform carry up the Champion of President Snows Games.

[WT]

“Ma’am, I’m telling you, she’s not waking u-”

“Well, she just has to, doesn’t she, if the victor presentation is tonight?”

Voices. Aranica had been hearing a lot of those lately- doctors’ voices, her rock’s voice, tributes’ voices. These voices sounded a lot calmer than all the others, though. Why? Why weren’t they worried? Everyone else was worried. She was worried. Probably. Was she? She thought so, but it was hard to remember exactly. She had been really worried last time she was awake...

“Look, her eyes are flickering. I think she’s awake and ignoring us.”

“She could be dreaming. If the dream-suppressing drugs have worn off the nightmares could be coming back...”

“Well, we’re about to find out.”

The voices ceased and were replaced by footsteps- one set, coming closer briskly but not quickly. They stopped, and a single voice returned. "Aranica Petros of District Twelve, if you don’t get with the program and wake up this moment I swear on Dru’s memory that I am going to chuck rocks into cloud-assassins’ mouths every chance I get for the rest of my life."

Dru. Rocks. Cloud assa- "No!" Her eyes flew upward and she tried to sit up, ramming her stomach into some kind of restraining belt and making her head spin. Light flooded into eyes that had been shut tightly for almost three days, and she squeezed them shut again for a moment before braving the world again. "Ow. Not the clouds! You gotta listen to me, they killed Dru, they-"

"Shhhhh." The owner of the voice swam into view- a young woman with bluish skin and bright green hair. The colors were different, but even so Aranica recognized her stylist. You’re awake, much better."

"Bellezze, please-!”

"I know, Aranica. Listen, the clouds can’t get to you here. Look around." Aranica steadied her trembling body enough to look around, and realized that the woman was right. There were no windows, no openings to be found anywhere in this clean white room except for one door, which was closed. Except for a medic of some sort, tribute and stylist were alone. No mentor, no prep team. Ara opened her mouth to ask (surely those others hadn’t died, too?!), but Bellezze saw the questioning look in her eyes and got there ahead of her. "Everyone thought fewer people would be better for now. Come on, let’s get you up so we can get to work."

‘Get to work’ didn’t apparently mean much on Ara’s end; she just stood there for an hour or so with her eyes closed, except for the occasional times when Bellezze asked her to open them to do something with makeup. Neither of them spoke, unless you counted Bellezze talking to herself and Ara exchanging polite conversation with the floorboards and makeup pads; she didn’t really feel up to talking, even to objects, but doing so kept her mind off of other things, other conversations, other people. So absorbed did she become with the piece of wood she was standing on, in fact, that she didn’t even notice when cloth stopped rustling around her and various tools were no longer brushing, poking, or pulling on bits of her body. She probably would have stood there forever if Bellezze hadn’t taking hold of her shoulders and swung her around to face a full-length wall mirror.

"There! Aranica Petros, you look amazing! Oh, and your rock is in a pocket by your right hip. They said you’d want it."

She stared into the mirror, blinking in a way that indicated more interest than she was entirely sure she even had. Even though she had been incapacitated, Bellezze had honored her aversion to skirts; rather than a dress, she was wearing a shirt of some kind and long, velvety pants, and a simple shawl was wrapped about her shoulders, obscuring her arms. The whole ensemble was in varying shades of brown and black to match her own natural coloring; even the makeup brushed across her face was in variations of that same simple color combo. "I look like a statue," she murmured, swaying back and forth so she could watch the play of light across her outfit. "Like... a rock. Like you carved me of the mines."

Tears sprang to her eyes as she reached into the pocket to touch the rock that had been through so much with her. She would give anything for the image in the mirror to be real- for her to really be a stone statue, rather than the unfortunately-living and reluctantly-breathing human girl she was.

You’re a rock, Aranica. You always have been, no matter what you’re wearing.

Bellezze’s voice suddenly appeared by her right ear, much gentler than Aranica was used to from the abrasive woman. "Come on, sweetheart. Don’t cry. It’s okay now. You did good, and everything is okay."

"I’s’not," she mumbled, but she didn’t expect Bellezze to understand and she didn’t think she could explain, anyway. No good things had happened in that Arena, and nothing would ever be okay because of that- how could you convey that to someone who had lived in splendour their entire life?

Her stylist did not in fact seem to grasp the comment, or at least, she didn’t say anything- she just made a small “mm” noise that could mean anything and laid a careful blue hand on Ara’s hair. It was thinner than it had been before she went into the Arena, but somehow that matted, disgusting, tangled mess had been not just tamed but civilized again. It hung loose, waving around her softly as the storm- no, as the AC system’s currents caught it. "I was going to put this up- make it poof again, you liked that and so did the audience. But... I think I’ll leave it alone."

That was supposed to mean something, but Aranica wasn’t sure what- maybe a clumsy attempt at comfort, maybe just a change of subject. It didn’t matter; suddenly nothing matter, except that she had to be alone for a bit so she could derail her brain before it took a wrong turn off memory lane. "Can I sit? Alone?"

Looking faintly relieved, Bellezze nodded. "There’s a platform under the stage that’s going to take you up in a few hours. You can go there early, if you want to."

A few explanations and one barely-noticed meal later, Aranica was resting on a metal plate in the dark with her stylist’s last instructions (Don’t mess with the left side of the shawl, and don’t look under it- it should stay in place, but if you tamper it’ll fall, and it would be better if you coped with the arm later. You’ll do great, Aranica- knock ‘em dead!) echoing in her ears. Knock ‘em dead. Ha. Yeah.

Never before had Aranica Petros, the clingy, people-needy girl that she was, been so grateful to be alone. She curled her legs underneath herself, careful not to put wrinkles in the pants, and breathed in the darkness.

How long she sat there beneath the stage, she didn’t know. For a time it was quiet, and she took advantage of that by letting her mind float in a vast sea of absolutely nothing; eventually she could hear announcements and applause, but that was all distant. It was comforting here in the small dark space, and she wasn’t about to leave this temporary haven just to wonder what was going on above her. It wasn’t until the platform actually started moving upward that she scrambled to her feet, her heart beating, and allowed herself to realize that she was about to be onstage in front of all of Panem. She didn’t even have time to digest that knowledge before the ceiling opened and spat her up into the outside word.

Light. Worse than that, open space- a whole stage’s worth of it and then beyond that a vast room with a high ceiling and faraway walls. She flinched away from the openness instinctively, then full-out cringed as the applause hit her. Mentally she kicked herself, knowing she ought to be displaying some kind of pride, joy, confidence, anything that would indicate that she had a backbone or that she was someone to make her long-gone blood family and her recently-dead friends and sister proud. She couldn’t, though- every time she opened her eyes, she saw all those people, and all that empty space, and wondered. That clever little mind of hers knew its times tables, and it was whirring away without her permission, figuring out how many assassins the clouds could have packed into that audience, and then how long it would take- and how many Capitolites would die- for the assassins carved a path to get to her. How many of them could she take down before they got her, how many audience members could she save? Not enough, nowhere near-

"Ms. Petros, your throne is-"

She flinched away from the helping hand of someone who undoubtedly had good intentions, but only terrified her. The motion knocked a few of her senses back into her, though, and she managed to straighten up and offer a shaky smile to the audience. One step, then another, brought her toward her seat for the night. She stumbled once, and visions of death after death (her nose smashing on the floor and going to her brain, her head cracking open, a loose floorboard coming up and catching her in the throat) made her lose the smile, but she got it back by the time she straightened, and by the time she had made it to her chair it had solidified. It was no more real and came no closer to her eyes than it had when she’d first forced it onto her face, but it was solid, it was there, and that was what mattered. She had promised to smile, after all. She had promised, so that there would be a little happiness in the Games, so that all the tributes who’d died and would never smile again could have someone to smile for them...

Crying will probably mess up my makeup, she told her rock for no reason in particular.

She cried anyway.

[aya]

Certainly not for the first time in the past several years, Arbor's chest ached. Most of it was self-originating: blame, doubt, despair, frustration — even his apathy managed to be painful. Shaw died, and then everything hurt. And then he was in the Hunger Games and everything was a little better. Because he was going to die soon, too, he just had to. But something had gone horribly, horribly wrong, and he'd lived. He'd won.

Being a mentor for a district that typically was out of the competition by the third day should've been easy: don't get too attached. Smile, be nice, but remember they're going to die anyway. I mean, look who he'd gotten this year: some delusional kid and Aranica. From Arbor's experience, the people who thought they would win never did. And the people who'd already resigned to their fate...

The Hunger Games works in an odd way. No matter what you want or expect of yourself going in, you will not receive it. Arbor had wanted to die. His alliance had wanted to win, hadn't they? Zinnia, Archer, Ailia, they'd wanted to win. And the people Arbor had killed, they'd wanted to win, too: Anastasia, Rocko, Jared, Blue — they'd all wanted to win, too. But they hadn't. Arbor had gotten too into the Games when he was in the Arena. And he didn't mean to win, but there was something powerful about being in the Arena... he just couldn't stop fighting.

It didn't seem like that was the case with Ara, though. She hadn't lost it, hadn't gone crazy like he had. She'd been a damned good fighter for a little girl — hell, for anyone, really — and had gotten herself in with a powerful alliance. Careers, and some goofy District Six kid. And they'd all, every last one of them, made it to the second-to-last day. And then the whole thing collapsed in on itself, like a flan in a cupboard. Even that hadn't left Ara alone, though — she'd still had Dru.

Poor Ara. That final fight had been so heart-wrenching, even stoic, apathetic Arbor wished he'd been blind again so he didn't have to watch. And if it were any tribute but his own, maybe he wouldn't have. He could have switched off the monitor and ambled downstairs for a drink. But he couldn't. He had to stay. He had to watch his tribute fight the girl who was, for all intents and purposes, her big sister. Her protector.

He wanted both of them to win, though he knew it wasn't possible. And he was pretty sure most of the Capitol had felt the same. And what the Gamemakers had achieved — the Head Gamemaker must be very proud, because she'd gotten what she'd intended: an emotional, exhilarating, heartbreaking, heartbreaking, heartbreaking ending.

But Snow couldn't be too happy about the debacle. District 12 was not supposed to win, and certainly not two years in a row, and certainly certainly not some nutcase blind kid and an oddball twelve-year-old girl. It would've been much easier for the Capitol if Jared had won instead of Arbor, and much easier if Dru had won instead of Ara. Because the Games were supposed to make sense. There was supposed to be logic in them: the strong would overcome the weak, the damaged good were supposed to die off early, and the youngest ought to be overpowered by the older, four-limbed of them all.

What kind of message did that send, when the underdogs came out on top? That nobody was too big to fall. Anyone could topple. And what message exactly did the Capitol want conveyed by the Hunger Games? Look at us. Look what we can do. You can't stand up to us. Yes, Capitol. Yes they can.

At least Aranica was being a good sport about the presentation ceremony. She smiled. Acted at least a little bit happy. Didn't do what Arbor had done a year ago. Didn't refuse to watch, didn't make much trouble — you had to forgive her for crying. And anyone would be willing to. Poor thing. And so young.. Arbor was a year older than she was when he'd gotten his heart ripped out of his chest for the first time. And he hadn't even had to strike the death blow himself. He hadn't had to —

There it was again, that deep ache in his chest. Why couldn't heartache be a figure of speech? Why did it have to be a real thing? Thinking about the people that were in his Games — if Shaw had been one of them — if Arbor had to — or if he had and didn't know — if he'd — or if he'd gone ahead and did even though he did know — or if it had come down to the two of them —

The former blind kid felt suddenly nauseous just thinking about it. His head was reeling and he couldn't make the hurt go away. He looked back at his tribute, up on the stage, more than impressed. How the hell is she smiling? Arbor wondered. He'd only imagined himself in essentially her scenario, and it was almost too much to bear. And his wounds weren't fresh, either — they'd already scarred over.

Ara's victory began to make more sense to Arbor. Give whatever credit you wanted to Dru, but Aranica Petros was much stronger than people took her for. Stronger than he was, at least, and that was for certain. She'd be okay, he figured. And he'd try to look out for her.

Still watching the events on stage — the first Victor Presentation he'd actually seen, he realized — Arbor was forced to wipe a tear out of the corner of his eye. And for the first time since winning the Games, his sadness wasn't self-originating. He wasn't self-pitying. All the sorrow and hollow heartbreak at that moment was completely for his poor tribute, his victor — although, he could hardly claim ownership.

He was her mentor, but Ara didn't belong to him, he thought. A wry smile spread over his face at the memory of Dru making that very clear, running her falchion through that one kid's eye. Vivid. "She's mine. Nobody is taking her away from me. Her life is mine to protect, mine to take away. Not. Yours. Get the hell away from her or so help me..."

He refocused on Ara and the contents of the stage. You did good, Dru.

[/size]

[Micra]

For Finn, it wasn't the victor that interested him at all. She would look nice in a painting yes. He had, of course, planned her portrait a dozen times for everyone who had asked. He had decided the dreamy look of innocence on one half of her face with an intense focus of a killer in the other would certainly make an impression. Yes. One half of her face bloody, one clean. So much to do in so little time.

But tonight, this night, Finn was unconcerned with the young victor. He was waiting for the video. The faces of 22 unknowns would be scattered among those of Aranica and her protector Dru.

It was the unknowns that interested him, that gave him chills. History would certainly remember Drusilla and Aranica. But would history remember Papero, the gentlemen boy from eleven? Would it remember Autumn, who died alone the second day? And every other name of the alliance that lasted intact until the second to last day would be lost.

To Finn Calloway, the worst thing that could happen was to accomplish something great and never be remembered. Which is why he was making a portrait of the 23 who did not survive. As he did every year. He still had last year's original piece. He had duplicated it, of course, for the ones who demanded him. But the original had been kept every year.

He turned his face to the video. A tribute to the tributes. He chuckled quietly at his little joke and tilted his head upward, toward the screen. A sketchpad had appeared in his hand. It was time for the video.

[Ray]

Rella Tealy

Rella stood in the crowd, staring up at the stage, eyes wide and lips slightly parted in anticipation. Rella excitedly awaited this moment through the whole Hunger Games, the moment the winning tribute could come back to civilization and revel in the glory that came with survival. Rella was pleased with the winner this year. She had loved watching both Dru and Aranica, but she had always hoped that if only one had to survive it would be the little twelve year old.

Rella clasped her hands together and smiled as Ara rose up onto the stage to the roar of applause. For some reason, Ara didn't look happy. Rella's eyebrows came together in confusion as Ara flinched away from the president, stumbled over to her chair, and started crying. Rella never understood how the tributes couldn't be happy. They had won the Hunger Games! Against all odds, they had survived and would soon be going home to glory and happiness for the rest of their lives! Rella sighed and looked down. Once again, the tributes reaction was disappointing.

Rella knew that she couldn't feel badly about how Ara was acting. If Rella had been in the Districts and gotten reaped, would she love the excitement of maybe winning? If she had to kill her best friend in order to preserve her own life, would she come out to the Capitol all smiles and happiness? Probably not. It's best not to dwell on what might have happened, Rella thought, turning to look up at the screen. Rella pasted a smile on her face.Just enjoy the recap video.

[peanutpie]

Gardenia Rinad

Once upon a time, I was rooting for someone other than the ugly district 12 to win. Two years in a row they had pulled through, showed strength in the arena. The disgust was easy to see in my face. But, of course, I was pretty much required to cheer. Why couldnt a sparkling tribute win? A district one or two, maybe even an eleven, with their sun kissed looks or dark skin. I was sick of seeing olive skinned, dark haired, grey eyed win the whole stinking arena over. I know, she was twelve, she needed to be supported... but I was furious at the whole thing. I had bets on Dru, who was obviously, from a different district. I shook my head many times over, watching the president lean against the wall in the background. I could see the suprise in his face. The twelve year old that bowled his lap dogs over, the twelve year old I wished I could rip to shreads at this very moment.
And this is why, when I thought about the intricate designs. This year had been a traumatic year. Bonds tightened, a week of battling. Only a week. The simplicity of this was saddening, but you have to think, the islands sinking was ingenius. As I adjusted my pink plastic trench coat, I fluffed up my hair even more and saw the recap video. Ah, there was Dru, right there. Dru, killed by Arianica Petros. I shook my head, only to see a few crying people. One man needed to be moved to the hospital because the stress shook him so heavily.
I just looked around, hooded my head, snapped on my favorite pair of sunglasses and walked through the croud, not caring to see one more bit of the video. And quite honestly, I wished Dru would of won.


(Ooc: This is Gardenias opinion, not mine.)

[chaseee]

Chance couldn't believe my eyes. Sure this little District 12 girl had looked tiny on the television screen. But now, here in the Capitol, sitting upon that Victor's throne, somehow, she looked so... petite. As she cried and smiled, and shriveled away from any human being near her, she seemed so frail. So fragile. As if the slightest wind could break her to pieces.
Of course, Chance knew, looks were deceiving. Certainly no one here thought she was the sweet, innocent girl she was prior to the Reapings. Anyone who had watched her slash through the other tributes would know she was pretty handy with a weapon. That still didn't make it any easier to take in.

It was not supposed to happen like this. For the past two Hunger Games, the most unlikely had pulled through at the end. Arbor Halt, for example. Just about blind, but just last year, he himself had been sitting up there watching listening to the crowd before him. And now, here was Aranica Petros.
Chance had to wonder, if just maybe, District 12 wasn't as it appeared to be either. There could be Careers everywhere, but it just seemed impossible. They were the most ridiculed, the least likely to win. Everyone knew that. Yet here they were, two District 12 champions.

Chance glared up at the girl. He had no idea why, but she just irked him. She seemed like trouble. Her and that little rock of hers. Chance smiled. There was her flaw. She talked to rocks. And clouds.
Everyone had been amused when the girl had began to have hushed conversations with inanimate objects. Chance had thought it might have been the stress of the Games, bearing down on her shoulders, but closer inspection revealed this had been going on before she had stepped one foot into the arena. Now that was something.

A hushed sort of silence swept over the crowd, and Chance realized it was time to veiw the recap video.
This was Chance's favorite part of the Victor Presentation. He would be able to see just how Aranica felt about these little acheivements. Maybe she wasn't the tough girl she acted in the Games? I averted my gaze towards the mega screen, positioned so that the crowd and Aranica would be able to watch her shining moments. I stared in wonder, as I saw everything the girl did, from that accidental murder at the bloodbath, to the final showdown between her and Drusilla. Well, that was just touching. And that girl... Chance shivered at the thought. If she had been sitting up there, staring down at us.... Now that was one mentally disturbed little girl.

The video was wrapping up. That meant the girl would be leaving soon. The Capitolites would be able to stay behind and celebrate, of course (Chance planned on doing just that), but the Victor was forced to leave.
Applause rang out throught the square. Some people were jumping up and down just to get a better look of her. Chance just stood there, wondering how on earth she was taking all of this in.